


the color of my blood is all i see on the rocks

by yvaia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Mates, Post - Apocalypse, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 15:35:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yvaia/pseuds/yvaia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Countless people have lost their loved ones in this war against the undead, but, Derek thinks selfishly, they don't understand. They mourn and move on, find new friends, or lovers and that's it, that's how it goes. Humanity can't afford to be picky in such circumstances, but Derek is not human. He has chosen and that choice is forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the color of my blood is all i see on the rocks

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd.

  
[](http://s152.photobucket.com/user/ugniuska10/media/Stiles.jpg.html)   
[ ](http://s152.photobucket.com/user/ugniuska10/media/Derek.jpg.html)   


It's bullshit how in the movies people don't notice when they get bitten. Because Stiles does, and it fucking hurts. Unlike an ordinary bite, the pain doesn't subside. It spreads slowly from his forearm, to his bicep, neck, up and up until it feels like it has reached his brain and took permanent residence. He wonders, for a second, if he looks as awful as he feels. If there's sweat gathered on his brow, red circles under his eyes, lips parted, swallowing shallow breaths of the cool evening's air in failed attempt to relieve the burning he feels in his throat. 

Shit, he swears in his head, whilst maintaining a neutral look on his face. Goddamnit, when his gaze stumbles upon Derek's back, his dark green jacket and jet black hair illuminated by the autumn sun. 

They're traipsing through the forest, after successfully (ha!) dodging a herd of the undead. No one is yelling in panic or grabbing their guns, which means no one has noticed that Stiles is literally dying. Then, Derek turns around to flash him a quick, private smile and Stiles has to hold back a broken sob. He smiles back. 

It's hard to fathom that merely two hours ago the trio had left their camp, healthy and happy. Well, at least as happy as the circumstances allowed. Stiles vaguely remembers joking around, weaseling a rare laugh out of Derek. The latter smiled at him then, all bright eyes and laughter lines.

"Hey," he says, but it's barely a whisper, so silent, neither of the werewolves notice. He clears his throat and with it, his mind. "Hey, I'm gonna take the first watch, okay?" 

Scott nods, his attention already focused on Allison, who, heavily pregnant, is waving from their safe camp and quickens his step. But it's Derek, always Derek, who questions, who turns back around, frowning slightly. 

"It's Cora's turn." he touches Stiles' arm tenderly and Stiles grinds his teeth in pain. It feels like the whole surface of his skin is being pricked by needles. 

"Oh, I know. I just.." he pauses, frantically trying to come up with an explanation that is close enough to the truth, so his heart won't betray him. "I feel tired and sad.. angry. I feel like going for a walk." 

"Do you want me to--" Derek begins, but Stiles shushes him by placing his palm on the werewolf's cheek. Damn it, he thinks, as he feels the undeniable pressure of tears in his throat.

"I love you." followed by a watery smile, as if that would help. He touches his lips to Derek's then, softly, but significantly, so reminiscent of their first kiss. He tries to remember everything about Derek now, to carry with him in his last moments, the curve of his spine, the color of his eyes, the callouses on his hands. 

"But I think I want to be alone for a while." 

It's a lie and they both know it. 

„Stiles.” Oh, God, of course his mate would feel the dread coming off him in waves. As Stiles thinks of leaving this life, never seeing Scott's baby, never playing chess with Lydia, never waking up next to Derek again, he gives up. He wants to be selfish in his death.

“Well, let's go, then.”

–-

Stiles has his back against a tree, feet firmly planted on red and yellow leaves. It's getting dark already and he realizes this is the last time he will feel the sun on his face. He doesn't know what to say, how to even begin to explain to Derek that no, this isn't just a simple walk, they won't go back and watch the stars with the pack, embrace each other before sleep, that they won't grow old together.

Derek is impatient. Stiles knows the wolf inside him is whining, affected by his despair.

So he just rolls back his sleeve. 

It's funny how people often pretend to know what's going to happen, as they create the seemingly worst possible scenarios in their heads, but the reality somehow always beats them.

At first, Derek's breath hitches. The bite is violently red, edges bruised in deep purple. Same color has formed a maze of veins on his arm, as if the bite itself was paint, and a spontaneous yet precise painter dragged his brush all the way across his skin. 

There are tears simmering in the corners of Derek's eyes, but his face is constructed into an unbelieving frown. Slowly, his trembling fingers reach out for the wound, urged by some deeply rooted instinct to take away his mate's pain.

“I don't understand, you-- You don't smell sick. Why can't I smell sick?” Derek's voice is higher, duller, as if he himself doesn't comprehend what he's saying. “It-- it must be something else. A dog.”

He's like a child now, choosing to deny what displeases him rather than face it, but Stiles doesn't have the time to be a mother, who lies in order to spare the pain.

“You know it's not.”

He's not listening, though, rambling on and on about wild animals, wolves, how Stiles doesn't look and doesn't smell sick, so it can't be and it makes Stiles feel worse than he already does. It's so out of character, it startles him - Stiles doesn't realize he himself is mumbling _I'm sorry_ , same phrase over and over again, until Derek stops and just stares at him, the lucid redness of his irises blurred by tears.

 

He's shaking his head. “No, Stiles, please, _please, not you_ ” Derek's speech is broken, heart's accelerating so fast, it rivals one of a rabbit's. It makes him breathe noisily through the ache in his throat. 

There's a variety of smells in the air – damp freshness of the fallen leaves, very slight stench of rot that has lingered everywhere since the first outbreak, and Stiles' scent that has always reminded him of cool night's air, old wood and color royal blue. And that scent is as strong as ever, wrapping itself around Derek, with no indication that his mate is wasting away right in front of him. He drinks Stiles in. 

There's a heaviness settled in Derek's heart, that same feeling you get after you wake up after a nightmare, disoriented for a few seconds, still believing what you saw is true. He desperately waits for the relief that hits after, but as he looks into Stiles' red rimmed eyes, he knows it won't come.

Countless people have lost their loved ones in this war against the undead, but, Derek thinks selfishly, they don't understand. They mourn and move on, find new friends, or lovers and that's it, that's how it goes. Humanity can't afford to be picky in such circumstances, but Derek is not human. He has chosen and that choice is forever. 

For a second Derek believes in God, just so he could have someone to blame. His hands are numb, as he embraces Stiles and quivers against his warmth. It's elementary, really, Derek thinks, as he tightens his arms around his mate, whilst the latter strokes his hair with trembling fingers. He simply won't let go, he'll stay beside Stiles until he turns into a brainless monster, cold and empty, and sinks his teeth into Derek's neck, rendering them both into lifeless creatures, who will mindlessly roam the earth until some unsuspecting human shoots them, easily, not knowing what kind of heartbreak had gone through.

Derek _whimpers_ , claws digging into his palms, whilst Stiles peppers his face with kisses. It's meant to calm him, or maybe them both, but instead, some small, ugly part of him whispers in his ear: “This is the last time he will ever do that.”

Suddenly, there's an overwhelming scent of wolfsbane in the air and in his nostrils, so quick, that he doesn't even have time to feel betrayed. “Had to get rid of you somehow.” Stiles gives him a sad, watery smile, as Derek, having lost all the feeling in his body, slumps against a tree trunk.

He reaches, desperately, for his human, but his arms feel like lead. “Don't do this,” he's yelling his his mind, but all that comes out is a silent murmur, full of unwanted sleep “please, don't do this to me.”

Stiles is white as a sheet and it's clear that standing upright requires all his strength. “Let me walk away with a clean conscience, okay? Just..” he inhales and exhales, steadying his breathing. “They need you, they do. You can't leave them, just after they started living properly again, after Danny and--” there's a pause. Stiles is trying to gather his thoughts, Derek can tell from his faraway look and it makes him want to howl. 

“I know I always said, that you could be the most selfish person in the world and it still wouldn't outweigh everything that life has thrown at you, but Dere-, ah.” Stiles has to stop for a second to control his shaking voice. He looks up to the colorful treetops that paint his blurred vision orange and red. “But I have one thing to ask of you now. Be selfless for me, one last time, okay? Think about Scott and Allison, I mean I need someone to make sure they don't name the baby after me. Can you imagine?.." the corner of Stiles' lips lift up "Isaac, Jackson and Lydia, too, they rely on you. And Cora, man, don't take away the last family she has.” 

Derek's world is almost completely clouded by the purple poison, but when feverish lips press themselves against his temple, he feels it sharply and clearly. It's the final goodbye, sadness, anger, love and regret poured into one small butterfly-like touch. The last he hears are the leaves rustling under the human's feet.

-–

“-the fuck happe--”

“-where's S-”

“-shit, come on!--”

The faraway fragments of sentences ease in and out from understandable echo to a buzzing sound in the background. He catches how, with every wayward phrase, the voice gets more frantic, but for some reason Derek can't bring himself to care. He's not sure why, but the eminent mixture of numbness and pain lodged deep inside his heart tells him that maybe it's better that he doesn't remember. Derek doesn't want to open his eyes. So he wills the darkness that engulfs him closer and drifts off again.

\--

It's easier to breathe, somehow, when he wakes for the second time. The scents that surround him are so familiar and safe, they relieve the tension from his shoulders. Fresh air, riddled with a heavy, clear smell of rain, pine and old paper, and something so distinct, like... almost indescribable and he's lost for a second, until it crashes into him. Like a dark, deep blue. As red bleeds into his vision and a permanent chill settles into his bones, Derek remembers, but wishes he never did.

He's lying on a bed, in a room that used to be theirs. The sheets carry the mingled scents of _StilesandDerek_ and he doesn't know whether he wants to bury himself in it or run away. Derek doesn't realize he's thrashing and howling, until Scott growls at him. There's an alpha like lilt in his voice, even though his irises remain gold. 

Scott had always been on a verge of becoming a true Alpha, but as the relationships between the packs healed and friendships grew, he realized he actually trusted Derek enough to be his alpha. It didn't felt right – Scott never wanted to be a werewolf, much less a leader of a pack. And Derek had settled into his position well, as he learnt from his mistakes and leaned on Stiles' counseling.

The growl snaps Derek still.

 

Scott doesn't recall what was on his mind, exactly, as he raced out of their safe camp, Allison's shout still in his ears, first drops of an upcoming storm on his cheek.

By the time he reached Derek, the rain was already pelting heavily, almost painfully hitting his bare arms. It was then that the panic fully set in. His alpha was leaning against a tree, his eyes closed. Stiles was nowhere to be seen and the water was already washing away the last remnants of his scent. 

“What the fuck happened?” he yelled over the crackle of thunder. “Where's Stiles? Where is he, please, Derek!” 

He lifted Derek, supporting him with his shoulders - “shit, come on!” - as his eyes scanned the area, his ears strained for a single sound. _I'll come back_ , he promised. _I'll get Derek home and then I will come back._

He hadn't. Not yet, anyway.

Scott feels himself choking up, as he throws a glance at Derek, who, after being reprimanded, is staring at a wall, eyes unfocused. 

“Where is Stiles?” he asks in a low tone. It surprises him when Derek answers, his voice devoid of any emotion.

“He got bit. He went off to shoot himself.” 

Scott doesn't understand at first, or at least pretends not to. 

He can't say it's the first time he's felt real grief. Sheriff's death, and Danny's too, had taken a toll on him, as over the years, they became good friends, but it's not the same now. It had been despair and sadness and regret that he felt then. With Stiles, it's disbelief. Despite what the human thought, or at least did in the early years of Scott's werewolfhood, in his mind Scott McCall deemed his best friend irreplaceable, and with it, indestructible. He constantly feared for Allison, for his mother and the rest of the pack, but never for Stiles, at least not to such extent.

And yeah, Scott McCall had been his superior when it came to physical abilities, but never elsewhere. The vastness of Stiles' mind and creativity astounded him ever since their first meeting in a cramped sad box, where Stiles grabbed Scott's hand and guided him to a kingdom full of dream forests and castles that he built using only his words. (They sat there for hours until their parents came to pick them up and Scott vividly remembers not wanting to go.) It had seemed to him that these qualities made a far thicker protective shield than any strength the werewolves possessed. So sure, he worried, but the idea of his best friend actually dying was an unimaginable concept - not one he refused to think about, but one that he simply couldn't fathom. 

That's why when he heard one single shot, ringing so far away even his enhanced hearing barely picked it up, he didn't even think to trace it back to his best friend.

\--

Over the next few hours, Scott, or at least Derek thinks it's Scott, makes sure that there's always another person in his room. He supposes it's because they are guarding him from himself, from doing something stupid. But they don't realize how pointless that is - Derek is already dead.

At the moment, Cora is curled up by his side, wetly sobbing into his shoulder, but he doesn't feel anything. Someone outside is kicking trash cans and yelling in rage. "He's not there, I can't find him!"

"What do you mean, you can't _fucking find him!_ What kind of shit werewolf are you?!" The answering voice is Jackson's. He somehow, against all odds, had grown incredibly fond of Stiles and though the words are biting, the anguish buried underneath them makes it ten times worse. 

"It's the fucking _rain_ \--" 

The door bangs open. Derek doesn't turn around, but the faint smell of toffee tells him it's Lydia.

"It's my turn." she states sternly. Derek knows Cora wants to stay, that she's trying to comfort him and at the same time is seeking reassurance that one day it will be okay, but Derek can give her neither, so she kisses his shoulder and leaves. 

Lydia doesn't curl up near him. Instead, she stands, straight as a guitar string, her shaking hands clenched in fists. "Why didn't you save him?" It's barely a whisper. Derek catches it, but stays silent. It's not like he has an answer, anyway. Why didn't he save him? Why wasn't he a better mate? Why was it Stiles that had to get bitten? Why was it always him that stayed alive, him, who had to grieve, who'd rather die a thousand times over than live through this again. It was cruel irony, that the one who wanted to stop the most, kept breathing. 

"I didn't-- I didn't mean it." Lydia's voice is noticeably higher. She's trying to keep her tears at bay. Derek hears her heart stutter, caught in a lie. Then, a featherweight touch on his shoulder and the red head is gone, too proud to cry in front of someone else. 

The room is silent.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Teen Wolf Challenge that spiraled out of control. Like I have no restraint whatsoever when it comes to Sterek.  
> (sighs)  
> Also, all that stuff about this being my first published work and me being non-native to English language.


End file.
